


The Next Sunset

by lashieldmaiden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, First Time, Idiots in Love, JUST KISS ALREADY, Oral Sex, Post battle of Winterfell, Post-Battle, The Bang That was Promised, The Couple That Slays Together Stays Together, post 8x03, smut with plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 16:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18695281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lashieldmaiden/pseuds/lashieldmaiden
Summary: Her dark blue eyes slide over and lock with his. “You saved my life last night.”He blinks at her. “You saved mine.”She seems somewhat frustrated by his reply, and turns to face him more directly. He gazes slightly up into her eyes. “You put yourself in danger for me.”“You did the same.”“I would not be standing here were it not for your sword.”“My lady, the exact same can be said for me - ““Ser Jaime, I am trying to say thank you, will you please stop making it more difficult?” She grits out.





	The Next Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh. I haven't written any fanfic in literal years. I'm brand new to the Game of Thrones fandom, I'm literally sliding in at the last possible second. I don't know what I'm doing, honestly.
> 
> All I know is I ship Jaime and Brienne like my life depends on it and after last Sunday and the Long Night, I had to sit down and bang out this fic. I really enjoyed writing it, so I hope you enjoy reading it. And whatever happens next Sunday, let us all pray that we finally get...the Bang That Was Promised.
> 
> Love to @roguebelle for encouraging me to write this.

Jaime Lannister stands on what remains of the walls of Winterfell and watches the sun set.

It is not, he reflects, a sight he had particularly expected to see ever again. He silently watches the blue sky above turn to pale gray, the last rays of the sun falling yellow over the white snow and the dark stacks of bodies piled high in the fields outside of Winterfell. They’ve been dragging the dead out all day, all the remaining living, from the lowest servant child to Lady Sansa herself. The armies of the Night King and their fallen comrades alike, all lay now in dreadful heaps, stacked miserably high. The Dragon Queen, her eyes red from weeping but clear, had announced that all the fallen would be cremated with honor the following dawn.

She’s not a bad Queen from what he’s seen so far, he reflects. Brave, certainly, passionately brave and determined. Not her father’s daughter in the ways that matter. In another world, another life, were he not of his House, who knows. 

He wonders if she’ll kill him or no, now that the battle is done. He finds he can’t really bring himself to care either way. The world seems very still and very serene at present, though the screams of the awoken dead still ring in his ears. He should be tired - exhausted - he should be finding a place to lay his head. He hasn’t slept in countless hours at this point. There had been no respite the night before. The furious battle had raged for hours, and when the dead finally lay still - _defeated by that deadly slip of a Stark girl, who would have guessed -_ after a few brief moments of bewildered confirmation of who was left alive, they had begun to reclaim Winterfell from the siege. He had worked through the night and through the day, pausing only when all the bodies were clear to dunk himself fully in a trench of icy water. He could not stand the stench of the deceased and the weight of that battle on his skin any longer.

He should be tired. But instead, he feels wide awake and very _present_ in the world. He had not imagined an “after” to this battle. He had ridden North to die

( _with her_ )

The idea that there was now an afterwards, that he was still breathing, that the next night was coming on and this one with no certain death in it…

He is not quite sure what to think.

A noise on the battlements behind him. He turns (a little too quickly, his nerves are not quite the best after last night when it comes to someone coming up behind him) and sees the only face he wants to see at this moment, here after the end of the world.

Lady Brienne - _Ser_ Brienne, his heart gives a twist in his chest - stands on the wall with him. She meets his eyes, then walks to his side, and gazes out over the fields of the dead. Her armor is off, and she is clad in a furred dark cloak and a gray tunic. Her face bears fresh cuts that will become new scars, but she stands beside him and she is warm and breathing and _alive_ and he drinks in the sight of her covertly but desperately. She is alive. Somehow, _somehow_ , through that nightmare of a battle, through the blood and the screams and the stench of burning and tearing flesh, they had come through and now stood on the other side.

They had come through together.

“Ser Jaime.” Her low, lovely voice carries easily through the cold air.

“Ser Brienne,” he returns, savoring the title in his mouth. He watches her watching the oncoming dusk, content to just stand in her presence, content to just live in the certainty that _she_ lived.

“I owe you a debt, it would seem, my lord.”

He genuinely does not understand her meaning. “A debt, my lady?”

Her dark blue eyes slide over and lock with his. “You saved my life last night.”

He blinks at her. “You saved mine.”

She seems somewhat frustrated by his reply, and turns to face him more directly. He gazes slightly up into her eyes. “You put yourself in danger for me.”

“You did the same.”

“I would not be standing here were it not for your sword.”

“My lady, the exact same can be said for me - “

“ _Ser Jaime_ , I am _trying_ to say _thank you,_  will you please stop making it more difficult?” She grits out.

Jaime’s mouth drops open. Brienne is clearly uncomfortable, and she blushes and looks away from him, turning again to face the falling night. A breeze rises and stirs her pale yellow hair, which floats gently about her face for a moment.

It takes a moment, but Jaime finds his voice. “Brienne -” damn the titles “- you must know, you _must_ understand that you owe me no gratitude.”

“You would have done the same for any other who fought beside you,” she interrupts hastily, the ruddiness of her cheek deepening. “I know, I know - “

“No,” Jaime says. “I wouldn’t have.”

Her head turns swiftly and she gazes at him, those clear eyes questioning and uncertain.

“I told you,” Jaime says, and hopes his words don’t make her bolt. “I was and am honored to serve under your command. I came here to fight for the Living, yes - but I fought for _you_ , as well.” Humor faintly gleams in his green eyes. “I swore to serve under you, my lady. I would have been a poor soldier indeed, to let my commander die.”

“But -”

“ _Brienne_ .” And again he cannot bring himself to distance himself from her by use of her title, he wants her name and _only_ her name in his mouth. He steps closer to her, gazing up into her eyes. “You owe me nothing. I would do it all again in a heartbeat, if it meant keeping you alive.”

There is silence for a moment. The night is coming on fast now but he can still see her eyes, shining in the dim light. She is staring at him with a hesitancy he’s never seen in her before - it’s unlike his ferocious Maid of Tarth to hesitate about anything, she is always so sure, so strong, so ready to stand up for what’s right. She ducks her head and turns again out to look at the fields outside Winterfell. Behind them, the castle is full of movement, servants preparing meals for the starving, exhausted soldiers, men stripping and bathing unabashedly in the courtyard to wipe the grime of the battle and the day’s horrid work from them, the flickers of torches and bonfires. But here on the wall, they are together, and they are still as the sky above deepens from gray to inky black, the stars glimmering to light one by one. Brienne tilts her head back and gazes upward, her breath frosting in the icy air.

“I did not expect to see another night,” she says softly.

“Nor I,” Jaime admits. He leans against the wall at her side. “We’re a hardy breed, apparently.”

She snorts. “We’re a _lucky_ breed, more like. If Arya had been even a few moments later…”

She stops and he sees her face go deliberately blank to keep her emotions hidden, but she shudders ever so slightly and he knows that she’s reliving the final moments of the battle. The three of them, her and him and Pod, crushed against the wall, hundreds of the dead including their own soldiers reawakened slavering and clamoring as they desperately tried to tear them to pieces. The exhaustion, the pain, the unbelievable certainty that each breath was their last.

“She wasn’t, though.” Jaime says quietly. “And we’re alive.”

“We are.” The faintest hint of a smile crosses Brienne’s face. (He wonders if he will ever again see that radiant beaming that flashed across her face the night previous, when she had risen in front of him newly knighted, splendid in her joy.) She turns and looks at him, sapphire eyes glimmering in the night.

His heart is _aching_ with how much he wants to touch her, just to lay his hand on her cheek, entwine his fingers with hers. Just to feel her, just to know for certain the truth of what his eyes tell him. Brienne’s expression changes as they gaze at each other, the smile slowly dropping off her face. He stares back, mutely, knowing he must look a bit idiotic but as far away from caring as the Iron Islands from Essos.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne says suddenly. Her expression is at once grim and determined, her shoulders straight and stiff.

“Ser Brienne?” Jaime returns, cocking a curious eyebrow.

“Please forgive me for what I am about to do.” Brienne’s cheeks are flushing again, red blooming on pale skin. Her eyes are intent on him, and - he has never seen her do this before - she actually bites her lip for a brief moment, and he realizes that Brienne is _nervous_. His warrior woman, his sword-wielding wench, is shifting awkwardly foot to foot now, her eyes skittering away from him but always returning to meet his eyes.

“What you’re about to - “

And then Brienne moves swiftly forward and wraps her arms around him.

He freezes.

She is all long length and hard muscle, even through the layers of Winterfell garments. Her arms are strong and sure about him - there is no delicacy in this embrace, it is fierce and tight and gentle all at once. Her head is by his - her chin by his ear - and he can smell the faint hint of soap in her hair and something clean and sharp, almost like steel, that he immediately recognizes as the scent that’s just pure her. Brienne hugs him and he wonders when the last time was someone touched him _anywhere_ so innocently, with no ill intent or ulterior motive. Let alone _embraced_ him.

Then the moment is over as quickly as it begun and Brienne’s arms are falling from him and she is stepping back. But as she withdraws, her face turns, and she - with such clear care and such palpable trepidation - brushes her lips against his cheek.

Her lips are surprisingly soft, the faintest caress against his skin. She does not linger for even a second, but almost snaps her head back and steps fully away from him. She does not meet his gaze but instead fiddles with her gloves, adjusting them compulsively. He is silently flummoxed, staring at her - her face is almost entirely a shade of shocking scarlet.

“Ah - yes, well.” Brienne says, her usual composure clearly flustered. “I - ah, yes. Good evening, Ser Jaime.”

She turns. He watches her as she turns and moves to walk away. To walk away from him and the last days - the last hours - the blood and the sweat and the screams and the Dead and through all of it the two of them at each other’s side, grim and resolved, prepared for the end but not prepared to let the other die. She had saved his life countless times this night. He had saved hers as many.

He had been prepared to die. He had not been - _and would never be,_ he realizes, in a blinding flash - ready to let her go.

Not then. Not ever. Now now.

He is moving before he can think, his left hand reaching out and grabbing Brienne’s wrist and spinning her back about. He has time to register her confused expression, those sapphire eyes brilliant and questioning, and then his golden hand comes up gently but swiftly to clasp the back of her head and move her head and her lips to his.

The world stopped.

 _Sweet_. How could she be this sweet? He would have expected almost anything of the Lady of Tarth - she was impossible enough - but this, this _sweetness_ , the shocked hesitancy as his mouth moves against hers. This, he did not expect.

She is unmoving, her lips frozen against his. He does not press his advance, he does not try to go beyond what he thinks his maid, his wench, might want from a first touch from a lover. He merely makes sure she knows he means it when he kisses her.

When he pulls back, her eyes are wide and dark, and fear and old wounds flare in them like starbursts. She eyes him - not suspiciously, that’s not quite the word - _warily,_ yes, that’s it, warily. He knows why. He knows. Brienne the Beauty. The maiden no man would want. The maiden no man ever bothered to truly see. The maiden that he had sneered at on first meeting, who had then carried him through fire and shit and tears and pain until he had no choice but to see her as she truly was - as pure and true as Valyrian steel. Those huge brilliant eyes reveal nothing but watch him intently, and all the while she says nothing, just stares at him. She seems to almost be waiting for him to strike her.

 _No_ , he thinks. _She’s waiting for me to laugh. That’s what she’s afraid of. That’s what she thinks comes next._

He is at once utterly furious at himself, at the entire male half of mankind, at a world so cruel that this marvel of a woman in front of him is looking at him now with such anticipation of distress. Enough. _Enough_. Brienne would never dream of taking anything for herself so boldly as he just did from her, and she would never press where she thought she was unwanted. Which means that it’s up to him to show her, to _prove_ to her, that he is sincere.

He leans his head forward, pressing his forehead against hers. He says nothing. He merely looks into her eyes.

Emerald meets sapphire.

Slowly, the wounded wariness in her eyes dims. Slowly, shock and wonder take its place. Slowly, Brienne of Tarth - Ser Brienne of Tarth - leans forward and presses back.

They breathe the same air together for a moment.

Then Brienne’s mouth is on his - _thank the Seven -_ and she’s kissing him with such uncertainty and such passion he could weep. She is cautious, careful, hesitating each moment before she places her mouth again against his - and all he can think is that he’ll die if she continues this slow torture, the gentle, soft press of her, the taste of her rising and retreating. Throwing caution to the winds - _fuck if all of the North sees them -_ Jaime presses his advantage and deepens the kiss,  his left hand clutching at her waist, tasting her and feeling her and _she’s alive, she made it, we both made it, she’s alive and I’m alive and I don’t want to let her go._ Brienne is making faint mewling noises at the back of her throat, and it’s the most unexpected sound he’s ever heard in his life and also very likely the most erotic. Her fingers are digging into his tunic, bringing him closer to her, and he wraps his arms around her and runs his fingers through her hair, lightly tugging, marveling at the feel of it, silky and fine.

They both come up gasping at the same moment, stunned, staring at each other, the sun still dying behind them, a sunset neither believed they’d ever see.

“Can we…” Jaime’s voice dies in the the middle of the request.

Brienne says nothing for a long moment. Then. “I have private chambers.”

Jaime does not speak. He merely offers her his hand.

Brienne hesitates a long moment - in terror, in _want_ \- and then she reaches out and places her hand in his.

The moment she touches him, Jaime tightens his fingers into almost a vise-like grip. He does not quite drag her, but he does stride forward with purpose, drawing her after him. She follows him down the stairs off the wall, through the courtyard, her face crimson as she avoids the stares of the soldiers. Jaime knows he should be more cognizant of her reputation, that it _will_ get back to the Starks and Daenerys that the Kingslayer had practically tossed one of their most loyal commanders over his shoulder and hoisted her off into the night. But once - just this once - by the Seven, he just wants _one_ night of not having to hide who he’s spending it with.

Also, maybe word of this will get back to that red-haired wildling.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne manages behind him as he enters the castle proper. “You don’t know where my quarters are - “

“I am planning to break down every door in the castle until I find them,” Jaime retorts. “Or you could give me a direction if you’d prefer to save some energy.” There’s a strange, fierce lightness beating in his heart, savage joy that twinkles in his eyes as he turns and grins back at her.

Brienne scowls at him, but she does tug him back from passing one narrow hallway and leads him down it instead to a dark door and an unassuming room just beyond. It is minuscule, barely more than a wide bed in one corner, but there’s a fire roaring in the fireplace and Brienne’s armor is shining on a chair in one corner.

He follows her into the room, closing the door behind him.

Hearing the latch click, she turns to him, and her eyes are nervous again. He carefully approaches her - his stomach is beginning to clench and his cock is hardening in his trousers. She is breathing deeply, staring at him with absolute uncertainty. Very slowly, he raises his left hand and traces down her cheek, cupping her face gently. She gasps slightly in surprise, but then - after a long pause - leans into his touch.

“We do nothing tonight that you do not want,” he tells her quietly. “And we can stop at any moment, whenever you want.” Gods, her eyes are wide and dark. The firelight reflects off them, painting her in flashes of shadow and gold. “We do not even have to do _anything_ , if you do not desire - “

“I do,” Brienne says in a rush. His cock twitches at the urgency in her voice. She glances away from him. “It’s just - I’ve never - I don’t know what - “

He slides his hand under her chin and gently guides her gaze back to his. Her breath quickens at the gesture, as does his. His hands practically itch with the urge to touch her, and he is filled with absolute giddy determination - this is not going to be a night that she will ever forget, or ever have cause to regret. He would swear an oath on it right this moment were she not standing shy and uncertain in front of him, looking like the answer to all he’d ever wanted.

“Trust me?” Jaime asks softly.

A moment. Then Brienne gives him the faintest of nods. “I do.”

And Jaime, in that moment, finally consciously acknowledges what he’s known in his heart for years.

_By the Seven, I love her._

He cannot help the slightly predatory grin that creases across his face as he steps closer to her, sliding his golden right hand (he cannot _wait_ to get that thing off) around her waist. “Oh, and one more thing, wench - if I do anything that you do not _thoroughly_ enjoy, you had better tell me right away, or I will consider you in violation of a knight’s pledge to honesty.”

Brienne’s nervousness vanishes in a flash to be replaced by an irritated glare. “Oh, we’re back to ‘wench’ again, are we -”

He silences her with a ferocious kiss, his mouth hard and hot against hers. After a moment of surprise, she matches his passion. They are fighters, they have dueled before, they have danced with swords and met blow for blow, but this is them matched perfectly on an entirely different level. He holds himself back from tearing her clothes off - _slowly, she has to set the pace here, don’t want to overwhelm her -_ but the moment her hands tentatively move towards slipping off his cloak, he shucks it off with abandon and tosses it away behind him, then goes to carefully undo her outer garments from where they’re tied about her neck.

When his fingers stray to the edge of her tunic, he feels her freeze for a brief moment. He goes no further, merely pauses and meets her eyes, holding off on so much as twitching until she carefully raises her arms in a silent assent. He draws the fabric up slowly, marveling at the expanse of strong, pale, muscled skin that is revealed as he gently removes the garment. Brienne’s chest is crisscrossed with scars and wounds, some fresh and some old, a rose and red latticework of marks across her form. Her neck bares four deep parallel grooves, a gift from Locke’s cursed bear so long ago, and he touches them reverently, remembering. His eyes travel downwards, drawn irresistibly lower, and he remembers back even further, to the baths at Harrenhal. Brienne’s breasts are still high and flat, the muscle underneath more prominent than any sort of softness, but she has gained slightly more curve than since he saw her like this last. Her nipples are rosy, the tips peaked. His mouth waters.

Brienne is blushing again, staring at him uncertainly as he gazes at her half-naked form. The blush streaks down her cheeks to her chest, which grows flushed in the firelight. He leans down and presses a single kiss to one bud.

Brienne makes a sound like a choke and a gasp combined in one.

Encouraged, Jaime kisses her breast again. And again. And then his tongue flicks out and curls around her peak as his left hand comes up to gently cup the neglected one.

Brienne is almost panting, and her eyes are huge and dark and full of shock. Gods, she’s so _responsive_ \- there’s no guile here, no planned seduction, no games being played. Just pure, uncertain yearning for a pleasure she’s never known. Jaime feels a wave of absolute desire crash through him. The things he wants to _do_ to this woman - he smiles brilliantly, savagely - the things he’s _going_ to do to this woman. He’s going to make this _perfect_ for her, damnit. He’s going to make sure of it.

He turns his attention back to the task at hand. His tongue becomes bolder, his fingers defter, gently encircling and rubbing and laving at her breasts. Brienne’s pants turn into faint cries, and her hands rise and clutch at his shoulders, then at his head. He feels her fingers dig into his hair, rough in her rising passion, and he chuckles against her flesh. His left hand leaves her breast and traces lower and lower, over the flat, hard planes of her stomach, to the line of her trousers around her waist. Carefully, he edges them both backwards across the room, until Brienne’s knees hit the edge of the bed and she stumbles, falling against him. He does not push her down, only faintly leans into her, encouraging, until she slowly sinks to the bed, gazing up at him with those brilliant eyes.

He tears off his tunic and is about to continue when he sees those eyes flicker for just a moment. Towards his right hand.

In an instant, he is wrestling with the clasps on his fake golden instrument. Instrument - ornament, more like, barely useful, although he had clobbered a few of the wights of the night before with it. But that hand was not his, not really, his was lost forever, lost in the service of the lady before him. This golden _thing_ was not his - it was Cersei’s, Cersei’s gift, Cersei’s curse. He will not touch Brienne any further with it. With a grunt, he frees himself. The hand clatters to the ground, and he kicks it absently away. He will not need it anymore tonight. Maybe never again.

Brienne is staring up at him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes shining. She slowly reaches out and grasps his right wrist, bringing it close to her. As he watches her, she closes her eyes and gently brushes her lips against his stump. His heart stutters to a halt. He wants to kneel before her and press his face into her stomach and never let her go. He wants to babble forth the words that rise in his throat at the sight of Brienne caressing the most devastating and most important wound he’s ever received.

_I love you. I love you, you maddening woman. You knight. I love you, Brienne. I choose you._

He wants to kneel, and so he does, crouching before her, in between her legs which hang off the edge of the bed. Brienne releases his wrist and he uses his stump - she does not once shy away from him touching her with it, and his heart breaks all over again - to press her slightly back until she is half-reclined on the cushion, her legs slightly spread, propped up on her elbows gazing at him. The fire throws flames into her dark eyes, and they gleam in the shadowy light. Both hand and stump trace down her chest, sliding over her breasts once more, down the length of her belly, until his fingers are plucking at the seam of her pants. She slowly raises her hips, and he slips the rough fabric slowly off her limbs and drags it down to pool on the floor, leaving her fully exposed.

She looks...vulnerable. And _delicious._ Those legs of hers go on for miles, long stretches of pale muscle, her hips are narrow, and between her legs…

Jaime draws a ragged breath. Between Brienne’s legs, her cunt is pink and dark, a swatch of silky yellow curls nestled atop her entrance. She is clearly wet for him, gleaming in the soft firelight. It’s the most beautiful sight Jaime has ever seen.

He runs his hand and stump reverently up her legs, loving every twitch and tense of muscle that he feels as Brienne’s breathing picks up on the bed. Her eyes are wide and almost disbelieving as he curls fingers and presses his stump against her knees to spread her legs wider for him. He leans forward, eyes hungry, and presses one kiss to her right knee. Brienne almost squeaks in surprise. He smirks at her, and lets his mouth run further up her leg, slowly dropping kiss after kiss on her as he goes. And then - fucking _finally_ \- he is at the apex in between her thighs. Brienne’s fingers are digging into the bedsheets as he pauses just once to make sure he meets her gaze, to make sure her eyes are on his, as he slowly lowers his head and presses a kiss directly on the pearl at the peak of her entrance.

Brienne cries out in shock, a low, guttural noise. Jaime allows himself one purely masculine grin. Then his mouth is moving, his tongue working, slowly and softly at first but soon with increasing speed and intensity. He licks and nuzzles and circles his tongue around and around her bud and soon his hand has joined in and he is stroking gently at her increasingly wet folds, circling her entrance with the tip of his finger, then slowly moving deeper and deeper until he is sliding his finger fully inside her and rocking it and curling it upwards against her inner walls as his tongue never stops diligently flickering against her pearl.

Brienne is almost thrashing on the bed, her cries growing higher and higher pitched. She is staring around in bewilderment, at him, at the ceiling, at nowhere and everywhere at once. He feels her shuddering inside, twitching and clutching at his finger - _fuck_ , she is warm and wet and almost as soft as silk. Her hands stray from clutching at his head, grasping his hair in her hands, to wrapping in the sheets and practically tugging them off the bed. He is relentless, pouring all his attention into driving her higher and higher into pleasure. He feels the exact moment she crests, her cunt tightening impossibly around his fingers with a surge of wetness, and Brienne wails above him, calling out -

“ _Jaime!”_

He slows his touches, kissing her folds and her peak as she rides out her orgasm, gasping and bucking her hips.

Jaime. Not Ser Jaime. Not my lord. His name, and only his name, finally coming from her lips.

He rises, licking his lips, shucking his own trousers off as he does so. His cock is painfully erect, hard as steel - he sees Brienne’s eyes stray downward as she slowly comes down from her peak. She flushes again - her innocence somehow still remains, even now, and it makes him somehow even harder - then reaches out and ever so cautiously grazes one finger down his length, looking up at him uncertainly for confirmation.

It is almost enough to undo him. He swears under his breath, praying to every god he knows, as she strokes down his length again, and again. Her touch - _Brienne’s_ touch - faint and hesitant and careful - is more unbearably pleasurable than any seductress’s practiced caress could be. The sight of her pale fingers against his member is enough to drive him mad. She wraps her hand around his hilt and gives one experimental squeeze, and his knees nearly buckle from want.

She notices and releases him instantly. “I’m sorry, was that - “

“No need to apologize,” Jaime grits out, huffing out a half-laugh. “Just be careful, sweetheart - a few more moments of that and this’ll be over far too soon for my liking.”

Brienne blinks at him before shyly smiling up at him. It is a smile of pure joy, of _pride_ \- he sees it sparkle in her eyes, the knowledge that she can do this to him, that she can make him weak like this. And then she is leaning forward and his breath stutters to a halt as Brienne of Tarth deliberately and carefully presses her lips to the head of his cock in a kiss.

His control snaps. Swiftly, but not roughly, he presses her back against the bed and covers her body with his, wrapping her legs around his waist. She looks up at him, for once, surprise and heated desire in her face as her hands come up to clutch at his shoulders. He positions himself at her entrance, still wet from his ministrations, and presses his forehead against hers. “Brienne, you’re sure?” _Please, be sure_ , he prays. He will stop right now if she asks, in a heartbeat. But it might actually, at this point, destroy him.

She says nothing. Just nods, her dark eyes luminous in her face, and presses her lips against his. He kisses her back fervently, and slowly pushes his cock inside her. Time stutters to a halt as she gasps against his mouth. They breathe together, frozen, staring into each other’s eyes, him buried deep, deep within her at last 

Fuck. She feels even better than he could have dreamed.

He goes slow at first, easing in and out of her, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. The slightest twist of pain would be too much - he wants this to be nothing but _good_ for her. But there is no evidence of any kind. Instead he watches as her face goes from astonished to wondering to contorted with pleasure. Wordlessly she arches up against him, beginning to press her hips back against his, matching him stroke for stroke. Encouraged, he slowly increases his pace, their bodies rolling to meet each other. For all the hard planes and lines of her body, inside she is hot and wet and irresistibly soft, and he thinks he could die happy now, having known what it was to be inside Brienne.

His right arm braces himself on the bed beside her head as his left comes up to tangle in her hair. Her hands come up to frame his face and she brings his head down to hers and kisses him passionately, sweetly. Their movements grew faster, and they came together with more intensity, each seeking to drive the other to an unnameable place of no return. He pulls back and drags her up with him, drawing her forward to straddle him as he kneels on the bed. She is above him now, looking down at him, eyes shining with pleasure. She experimentally rocks her hips up and down in this new position and he almost goes cross-eyed at the sensation, of the new depths he’s able to reach. Brienne seems to feel the same way, because the breath huffs from her mouth in a moan and she begins to move against him again in earnest, pressing her forehead against his. He wraps his arms around her back and tangles his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back gently to get access to her neck, which he grazes with his teeth with a growl.

“God, Brienne - _Brienne_ \- “

“Jaime,” she whispers, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. “Oh Jaime - _Jaime_ -”

And then she lets out a piercing, almost startled cry and comes apart on top of him. He feels her shuddering through her release, the walls of her cunt rippling against him, a rush of wetness in between her legs. She arches her back as she continues to buck against him, straining, her eyes clasped shut, her face lost to any thought but fierce pleasure.

It is enough. It is more than enough. With a roar, Jaime pounds into her - once, twice, three times - relishing pushing her through every single second of her release. Then his own world explodes in a blinding flash of pure, almost holy joy and his pleasure crests and he has just enough presence of mind to pull out of her and spend himself against the bedsheets as his climax overtakes him.

Their panting and the crackle of the fire are the only sounds in the world. Jaime’s head falls forward and he presses an exhausted kiss to Brienne’s shoulder. Her hands wind about his face and bring his mouth up to hers, easing her lips over his in the most tender kiss he’s ever felt. He kisses her back, pouring his heart into it. He slowly eases them back down onto the bed, entwining their legs together, enfolding her in his arms. She ends up sprawled across his chest, her head pressed to the crook of his neck. They hold each other, their breaths and heartbeats slowing, wrapped up in one another.

Jaime feels her shoulders hitch, and feels a faint dampness against his neck. He cranes his head down in time to see a single tear trace its way down her face. Brienne immediately wipes it away and avoids his gaze, her fingers tracing across his chest.

Sudden dread twists in his stomach. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He cranes his head to try and make her meet his eyes. “Did I hurt - “

“No!” Brienne shakes her head and glances up at him apologetically. “It is foolish of me, I’m sorry -”

He says nothing, merely waits, gazing at her.

Her breath stutters out in a sigh. “I...did not know it would be like that. Is all.” She pauses, then says reflectively. “I believe I understand a little better what all the fuss is about now.”

He snorts out a laugh and presses a kiss to her forehead, his fear easing away. “You can’t imagine my relief at surpassing your expectations.”

“I never expected this,” Brienne says simply, looking him square in the eye.

His breath leaves him with the raw honesty in her expression. “Well, you should have,” he finally manages. Brienne looks at him quizzically. He smiles at her, brushing her hair out of her face. “I’ve been in love with you for ages, you know.”

Her eyes go round as saucers. She looks positively poleaxed. He would laugh except that would be devastating now - for once, he’s not going to ruin a moment with this woman, this warrior beside him. He kisses her, gently, slowly, hoping he can convey to her how truly he speaks in this moment.

“You love Cersei,” she manages when he pauses for a breath.

“No.” He absolutely refuses to let that shadow come between them, not even once. “I _loved_ Cersei. And now I don’t.” He holds her firmly but tenderly as she tries to pull away. “I loved a woman who no longer exists.” He tells her quietly, making sure that she can read his eyes, so she can see the sincerity there.

“You’ll return to her - “

“Do I look like a man who’s in any hurry to return to King’s Landing?” He asks her, cocking an eyebrow and deliberately eyeing their naked forms.

Brienne’s eyes have that wounded look to them again. “Jaime, you don’t have to - I don’t need you to make false declarations, I don’t expect anyth - “

“If you insult yourself thus ever again, I am going to tie you up and make sure you know _precisely_ how I feel about you calling my vows of adoration false.” Jaime says mildly.

Brienne gapes at him, blushing furiously. _Interesting_. His cock, despite his exhaustion, twitches slightly. He ignores it and rolls over to again spread his body over hers, running a hand through her sweat-soaked hair. “Brienne, I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I don’t know what next battle lies before us. I don’t know if your Dragon Queen might see fit to have my head with breakfast come morning. But I do know this - the only place I want to be is at your side.” He reaches down and clasps her hand, drawing it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it. “I swear it,” he adds softly.

Brienne’s eyes are unfathomably large and dark and deep, her lips slightly parted. She gazes up at him silently for a long moment.

Then.

“I love you, too.”

It is barely more than a whisper. It is enough to make him weep. An unknown tension in his heart he didn’t know he was carrying eases all at once. He grins down at her and kisses her fiercely, delighting as she kisses back. His cock stirs fully to life once again and it is the easiest thing in the world to slip back inside her and slowly rock them both back into pleasure. This time it is gentle, full of sighs and caresses. They entwine about one another, carefully rolling over and over in the bed, now her on top, now him, words of love dropping from his lips and his name ever present on hers. They wrap around one another so closely, he feels as if he wants to sink inside her and never leave. She sighs through her next peak, her eyes wide and wondering at the still unfamiliar sensation, and he whispers her name as he comes apart with her astride him, spilling his seed onto his stomach.

Afterwards, drowsiness overtakes them, warm and welcoming. For the first time since he came North, the idea of sleep appeals to Jaime. Brienne murmurs beside him, turning her face to the pillow, her eyes half-lidded and bleary with weariness. Jaime presses his face to hers for a last kiss, then almost blind with exhaustion rises and begins to look for his clothes.

“Where are you going?” Behind him, Brienne struggles to sit up, her limbs sluggish and movements slow.

Jaime stops in his tracks, his tunic falling from his slack fingers. He turns and stares at her on the bed - Brienne, his Brienne. Her modesty has her plucking up the sheet to cover her body, but he can still trace every long line of her form. The fire is dying but he can still see how blue her eyes are as they trace over his face.

“I have to  - “ He halts as his stomach twists in shock.

He doesn’t have to leave here. He doesn’t have to sneak out, hiding what they’ve done, a shameful secret. There are no servants who will stare and whisper sordid insults behind his back at what happened behind closed doors, no satisfied guilt he need carry sick and twisted in his gut. He has done nothing wrong by loving Brienne. He can -

Brienne reaches out for him. “Stay?” It is no command, just a request. Her hand is open, her palm outstretched. She does not demand. She merely offers, her sapphire eyes locked on his.

He stares at her. Then he turns and sinks back into the bed and her embrace. “As long as you’ll have me,” he whispers, entwining his fingers with hers.

That smile from the night before, that radiant beam that spread across her face, blossoms again for a brief flash. She lays back and pulls him down with her, nestling into the tangle of thin sheets and meager pillows. Jaime pulls her head back to his shoulder and presses a kiss to her brow as her arm entwines about his waist and she curls about him, her larger body enveloping his. Jaime holds her close as her breathing deepens and slows and the fire finally dies, the last embers sparkling on the tears in his eyes.

As long as she’d have him. And longer by far.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart,” he whispers against her forehead. She murmurs sleepily in reply, her arms tightening about him. He smiles down at her, tenderness drawing him to press another kiss between her eyes.

Then, closing his eyes, he drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Jaime x Brienne forever. Kudos if you agree?


End file.
